


be in my eyes (be in my heart)

by roothful



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Coming of Age, F/M, Fluff, Jughead's a SOFTIE, One Shot, Pre-Canon, Pre-Relationship, follows into (kind of) canon, you can be the judge of that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-10
Updated: 2018-09-10
Packaged: 2019-06-26 13:06:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15663819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roothful/pseuds/roothful
Summary: It comes without warning, quick and striking him so forcefully he feels it all the way down, stretching to his toes. It’s warm, yet unkind. Welcoming, yet impassive. It is ice cream on a hot summer’s day, a lick of a dog’s tongue, the swipe of a thumb to wipe away a stray tear.It is love....Or, Jughead's definition of love over the years.





	be in my eyes (be in my heart)

**Author's Note:**

> Follows Jughead's perspective through the years of his life. 
> 
> The title is from The Lumineers' song, "Flowers In Your Hair."

 

 

_and yes, there are over_

_a million words in our_

_language but for some reason_

_none of them can describe_

_the way you make me feel._

_\-- r. m. drake_

 

Not long after Jughead Jones turns six years old, he feels something twitch in his chest for the very first time.

The humidity in July is especially stifling this particular night, and the air conditioner in the Jones’ home is cranked full blast. The sweltering heat isn’t enough for Jughead to remove his beanie, but it’s impossible not to break a sweat. He’s lying on his twin bed, staring at the ceiling, letting time pass him by as the sweat gathers and beads on his forehead. Other than the low hum of the unit pumping out cool air, the only noise to be heard was the soft wails belonging to a baby from the kitchen.

_Jellybean._

Jughead hops off his bed and begins his lazy trudge toward the kitchenette. As he allows his feet to drag, he hears his sister’s cries grow increasingly strained and forceful. The sobs are followed by a sound that Jughead can only seem to describe as _cooing,_  shushing the infant.

As he rounds the corner, he is met with the sight of Gladys, his mother, cradling a young Jellybean in one arm and the newspaper bunched in the other hand. Her brows are pinched in thought as her eyes scan the paper, looking impossibly pensive. To the right, his father is seated beside her-- a mug of a coffee in one hand, his eyes soft as he gazes upon the fussing baby's head.

FP is the first to notice him apprehensively leaning against the doorway to the kitchen. He chuckles softly to no one in particular, sighs deeply, and says,“Come here, Jug.”

Jughead happily bounds over to his father, where he is lifted in one swoop onto his lap. He settles on his father’s leg, his own legs swinging playfully underneath the table.

Jughead’s gaze shifts to meet his father’s, and he is mildly startled to realize that FP is already looking down at him with deep, brown eyes. He has a faint smile-- the type that lingers on your lips, a sign of contentment.

Jughead manages to break eye contact, stealing a glance at his sister. Her impossibly tiny features appear so delicate in the warm haze of the afternoon-- all soft edges and smooth planes of skin. Her dark brown hair is only in wisps, curling in tendrils all over her small head. Her soft, feeble cries ring out into the kitchen with a slight echo, and Jughead wonders briefly if he was ever this little, this pure.

He taps his mother lightly on her forearm to get her attention. “Mommy, can I hold her?”

Gladys smiles genuinely, her warm grin stretching from cheek to cheek. She nods once before cradling the infant's head for support and her backside with her other arm. She gingerly instructs Jughead to sit down at the table, and carefully hands him the baby.

With his little sister in his arms, it’s easier to get a better look at her. She’s stopped crying all together now-- her eyes are nearly half closed in a sleepy lilt, deep and brown. They look like little orbs, so wee, yet so full of purpose and innocence all at once-- Jughead wants to give her the world.

 _When I’m older,_ he thinks to himself, _I’ll make sure Jellybean and I get whatever we want. We will live in a treehouse with Hotdog, and we’ll have Pop’s any time of the day._ He pauses for a moment and then reconsiders.

_Maybe Pop Tate can just live there with us._

His inner monologue is abruptly interrupted by an indescribable heat by his left hand. He curiously looks down and is surprised to find Jellybean has absently wrapped a small finger around his pinky.

His father notices, too. “She knows it’s you, son. She knows you’re her brother.”

Something about the word _brother_ triggers something inside Jughead, and for the first time in his young life, Jughead is rendered speechless.

It comes without warning, quickly striking him so forcefully he feels it all the way down, stretching to his toes. It’s warm, yet unkind. Welcoming, yet impassive. It is ice cream on a hot summer’s day, a lick of a dog’s tongue, the quick swipe of a thumb to wipe away a stray tear.

It is _love._

And he doesn’t know it now, and he won’t for a long time, but years later in that very same kitchenette where Jughead stood, cradling his sister with all the love he could possibly bear, he will watch his mother leave-- his younger sister in tow.

 

* * *

 

 

When Jughead Jones turns eleven years old, his father asks him to join him on an errand.

Jughead is smart, now that he is older-- he knows that if he declines, his father will drink more of the whiskey that Gladys purposefully stored away in the spice cupboard with the intention of FP not finding it.

So Jughead agrees right away, ties a flannel around his waist, shoves his beanie over his ears, and gets in the passenger's seat of FP’s old pickup truck.

(Jughead is smart, and he also knows that even if he comes with his father, it won’t stop him from reaching for the hidden bottle of booze.)

The truck weaves and swerves its way through paths of gravel and roads of cement. The pine trees meld together into a flurry of green as they whizz down the road, shades of emerald and sage serving as a dark contrast against the clouded sky. Jughead watches as the view from the window grows less familiar, less like home.

He frowns. It occurs to him he never questioned where they were going, and Jughead is now aware that would’ve been a good idea.

He coughs awkwardly and shifts to face FP in his seat. “Hey, Dad? Where are we going?”

FP visibly gulps, and his grip seems to tighten on the steering wheel. His knuckles turn an unfamiliar shade of white, but he maintains his view on the road. “Just taking care of some business I have to attend to, Jug. Don’t worry about it.”

Jughead raises an eyebrow, but says nothing.

The truck suddenly swerves right onto a bumpy path, the sound of pebbles crackling underneath the weight of the tires, filling the empty silence between a boy and his father. Jughead can now see a tall billboard of sorts in the distance, and as the car becomes nearer by the second, he can now make out what the sign says.

THE TWILIGHT DRIVE-IN

TONIGHT 9:00 PM  
CASABLANCA

STARRING HUMPHREY BOGART & INGRID BERGMAN

“Casablanca?” Jughead breaks the silence. “Dad, why are we at the old drive-in?”

FP dismisses his question, gripping the steering wheel tightly as he pulls the truck by the curb with a low rumble from the engine. He puts the truck into park, hastily removes the key, and slams the truck door behind him without another word. Jughead is left alone in the passenger's seat with several questions and a grumbling stomach.

Jughead contemplates what he should do. He decides he has three options-- stay in the car, attempt to seek FP’s whereabouts, or explore independently.

(Jughead Jones will _never_ turn down an opportunity to investigate.)

As he hops out of the truck, he cringes as his only pair of canvas sneakers gets a large smear of mud across the sole and toe of the shoe. Although the laces were fraying at the ends and the heel of the shoe rubbed about his ankle, they were his favorites.

 _I won’t tell Mom,_ he decides, and his attention is drawn to his surroundings.

Jughead had been to the Twilight Drive-In once before in his childhood. It was just a couple years prior-- Jellybean had just celebrated her second birthday and Gladys decided to do something special to commemorate the occasion. The family of four had squished together in the trunk of FP’s truck on a starry, brisk Sunday night. _It’s A Wonderful Life,_ the movie was called, and Jughead vaguely recalls stealing quick glances at both his parents, sitting with relaxed, content smiles, and thinking-- _Yeah, it really is._

Now, Jughead stands in the middle of a deserted, muddy field beside a pickup truck, and he can hardly recognize the drive-in during the daytime. If he squints, he can see rain droplets catch and slowly descend down the plastic panes of the tall, towering sign that presides over the park.

Jughead swings his leg as a mindless act of boredom, absently kicking a lone pebble. He watches as it skids across the matted grass, thick from the rain and muck. His eyes scan the vast plain once more, now settling on the projection shack that is adjacent to where he is standing. His eyebrow ticks in curiosity by instinct, and thinks to himself, _Might as well pass the time somehow._

He twists the doorknob of the entrance cautiously, unsure of what lies ahead. The hinges of the door produce a long creaking shrill as it slowly gets pushed back. When the door is fully hitched and extended open, Jughead can see nothing but deep shadows from the sole window to his left, letting in a small sliver of light.

Jughead blindly stretches his right arm to the side of the wall to fumble and feel around in hopes of finding a light switch. He feels a bump on the wall, pats it to determine its shape, and flicks upward with his fingers.

Three stray light bulbs flicker to light, and Jughead is in _awe._

The projection booth is small, but its contents appear to widen the space. The stone grey walls are lined with shelves, cases of cassette tapes were stacked on top of movies in DVD disks and boxes. Loose scrolls of old film paper sprawled from the hinges of the shelves, dangling loosely in the air off the edge. Posters adorned the corners of the room, donning classics like _Pulp Fiction_ , _An American in Paris,_ and _The Grapes of Wrath._

Jughead stares at his surroundings for a solid minute, unsure of what to do. He cautiously drinks it all in-- the large projection camera pointing out towards the window, specifically. He approaches the camera and allows his fingers to trace the body. His fingerprints leave behind delicate trails of dust as he feels the camera, cool and weighted against his hand. Small, printed letters catch his eye on the body of the lens. _35mm_.

Jughead glances across the room to the shelves full of old movies, back to the film projector, and slowly, he grins.

He crosses over to the shelves and scans quickly for a flick to pop in the projector. He grabs the first one he sees, _Rebel Without A Cause_ , and hastily puts the tape into the cassette tray. He fidgets with the machine for a few more beats, and then _voila-_ the movie has begun to play on the large, white screen ahead of the booth.

Jughead smirks and pulls up a metal chair from near the door next to the window. He kicks up his feet on the sill, leans back, and thinks, _Not too bad._

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

On his fifteenth birthday, a large box is set in front of Jughead at the breakfast table. Mid-chew of a forkful of microwaved pancakes, he manages to ask, “What’s that?”

His father, who is halfway out of the door with one arm in the sleeve of his Serpents jacket, answers gruffly, “It’s a surprise,” and with that, Jughead is left alone with a dry throat and a mystery box within his reach.

Jughead eyes the box curiously for several moments. It looks normal enough-- plain, brown cardboard-- but Jughead believes he has reasonable cause to have some suspicion in regards to the contents. He picks it up and it feels inexplicably heavy, prompting his eyebrows to skyrocket. It’s almost too much to bear.  Jughead rips off the tape binding the top flaps together and looks inside.

Sitting on the bottom of the box is a laptop.

Jughead’s eyes widen to the size of saucers. He carefully removes the computer from the box and simultaneously clears the table so there is space with a swipe of his left hand. He delicately places the laptop down, sits down in his chair, and stares incredulously at it.

A laptop. A _laptop._ It can’t be real. Jughead pushes away the thoughts of how FP specifically obtained such an object and instead decides to focus on what to do next. He uses his fingers, slightly slick from bacon grease, to raise the top of the laptop to reveal the screen.

Immediately, the screen of the laptop brightens-- something Jughead has never seen before. He jolts in his seat from the initial surprise, chuckles, and tentatively places his fingers on the keyboard. Slowly, he types his name and grins widely from the satisfying sound of keys clacking. He opens a new word document and begins to type.

The clock strikes again, hour after hour, and Jughead is still typing furiously at the kitchen table. His eyebrows are practically woven together in a fierce passion, only taking brief breaks to either crack his knuckles or rub his eyes.

He doesn’t realize it is close to midnight until the knob on the front door twists. FP comes stumbling in through the doorway, one beer in his right hand, half empty. Jughead snaps out of his reverie and swallows down the thought that immediately follows.

_That’s definitely not his first._

FP doesn’t seem to notice him at first, and Jughead coughs awkwardly. FP’s gaze slowly snaps to his son’s, whose eyes are cloudy with anger.

Jughead feels his eyebrows knit together tightly, unrelenting and unforgiving. His lips press together in a thin line. “Are you serious?”

FP shifts from one foot to another. He loses his footing, stumbling and catching the edge of the dingy countertop for support. He looks disoriented, but visibly shrinks under his son’s harsh gaze.

“Jug, look, I--”

Scoffing loudly, Jughead folds his arms defensively across his chest. “Save it, Dad.”

Jughead slams the lid of his laptop shut and hastily stands up from his seat at the table, too angry to cringe at the sound of the metal legs of the chair scraping eerily against the linoleum floor. With one hand holding the laptop, he pushes past his wobbling father in the cramped space of the kitchenette, grabs his jacket off the coat rack, and opens the door. Before he can exit, he hears FP call his name.

Hesitantly, he turns around to face his father. They are close, and Jughead can smell the telltale bitter, sharp whiskey in his breath. FP claps a large hand on his shoulder.

“Jug,” FP begins weakly, “don’t go. I- I promise... I won’t…” FP’s voice trails off slowly, and his eyes grow foggy with tears. FP pulls Jughead into a bone-crushing hug, holding him tightly and sobbing loudly into his shoulder.

Immediately, Jughead stiffens under his touch. FP doesn’t seem to notice, continuing to weep relentlessly. It isn’t until Jughead feels the bare skin of his shoulder grow damp that he pulls away from his father’s embrace.

“Dad,” he breathes, “I gotta go.”

It is silent for several moments. Jughead waits for his reaction until he realizes that FP’s attention is now focused on the baseball game that was playing quietly on the television as Jughead was working. Sighing to himself, he slips through the front door of the trailer, closing it behind him with a twist of the knob.

There is only one place in town that is open 24 hours.

The walk to Pop’s is silent. If he didn’t know any better, Jughead could’ve mistaken Riverdale for a ghost town-- vacant streets, except for the occasional car whizzing by, only illuminated by the dim fluorescence of the street lights. He passes the houses he once longed to live in-- the ones that don’t have creaky steps that lead to the entry or small windows that are accompanied by old, rickety blinds. _The irony_ , he muses, and before he ponders any further, the bright lights of Pop’s in the distance catch his eye.

He enters the diner with his head hung low, his eyes darting almost immediately to his favorite booth (it’s in the corner farthest from the door, that way, he can eat in peace). He plops down into the booth unceremoniously, opens his laptop up, places it in front of him, and gets to work.

The act of writing itself wasn’t enough to take the pain away.

Yet, to Jughead, it allowed just enough of an escape necessary at that moment. It filled him-- the overwhelming fulfillment of finishing a paragraph, the clacking of the keys easing the swirling thoughts that circled through his restless mind.

Jughead writes for what feels like hours, only pausing to take sips of the coffee the waitress had carefully set in front of him when he first arrived. The repetition is relentless- type, blink, sip, repeat. He types the last couple of words on the document and dramatically raises one finger to punch the period key- the satisfaction of completion smug in his shy grin.

He scrolls to the beginning of his document and reads his work all the way through. It has its faults-- comma splices, sentence fragments, the works-- but Jughead doesn’t edit a single word. It is his work in its entirety.

It is something to keep him company on the days when FP comes home in the darkness of the morning, only to leave before Jughead has the chance to say hello.

It is something to provide him comfort when it’s just him in the trailer-- a picture of his mother and sister on his bedside table, a photo of Archie and him on his windowsill-- but he can’t help but feel alone.

 _It is the only thing that will keep me sane_ , Jughead decides, and his heart swells and beats madly under the thick denim of his sherpa jacket.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Betty Cooper first arrives in his life when he is six years old.

First grade means a lot of things to Jughead: snack time after spelling, counting to 200, and show and tell before recess.

It is a sticky Monday afternoon. The humidity seeps through the barely opened window panes, clinging stubbornly to the children’s skin. It’s the first day of school, and the first graders in Jughead’s class buzz excitedly- it is just before lunch.

Jughead knows many things. He knows he loves his little sister. He knows the glances Gladys carefully shoots at FP when he orders another drink, and he knows how to say _please_ and _thank you._

 _I know that today,_ Jughead thinks, _is show and tell._

The rhythmic tapping of chalk against a chalkboard startles him out of his thoughts. The teacher, with her perfectly coiled hair, announces, “Okay, everyone! Who has something important they want to share with the class?”

Several hands shoot up in the air eagerly. The teacher puts a hand on her hip, playfully squinting and scanning her eyes across the sea of children. Her eyes settle on someone sitting somewhere to his left and her lips purse, satisfied.

“Betty! Why don’t you come up and share?”

A vision of gold catches Jughead’s eye as a young girl rises from the crowd. Her ponytail bobs up and down as she skips jubilantly to the front of the room. She smoothes out the front of her pressed pastel sweater, takes a deep inhale, and announces, “This is my book!”

From behind her back, Betty whips out a thin novel. She beams proudly as she stops to gaze at it, her fingers tracing the letters of the title. She turns the book around to face the class.

“This is my Nancy Drew Handbook,” Betty says, and Jughead watches her flats tap excitedly against the linoleum floor.

“My daddy gave it to me for my birthday. It teaches me how to do all kinds of stuff. Pick locks, solve codes. Like a detective!”

 _Ooo’s_ and _ahhh’s_ ring out among the class. Jughead watches Betty’s eyes dart quickly to Archie, the kid he met that morning on the bus. Jughead turns his head slightly to see if Archie is staring back at her, but he is talking to a girl with red hair. Jughead steals a quick glance at Betty, who is as white as a ghost. She quickly announces, “I’m done,” so quietly that the teacher has to ask her to repeat herself.

His teacher’s words wake him from his daydream. “Thank you for sharing, Betty. Very cool.” Betty nods, flashes another smile, and weaves through the sea of children back to her seat on the carpet. She tightens her ponytail when she is finally back on the floor, cross-legged primly and her back straight. The teacher begins to drone on, but Jughead’s ears began to slowly drown out her voice.

He watches Betty carefully out of the corner of his eye for the rest of show and tell.

Later, during recess, Jughead slumps against the brick wall of the school building. He watches Archie, the red-headed kid who was kind of nice to him, sprint along the soccer field with the other classmates. He is smiling, grinning madly, laughing too loud. His laughter rings in Jughead’s ears. He sighs to no one in particular, opens up his graphic novel, and begins to read.

He is so immersed in his book that he barely notices a spot of pink slide down next to him. He glances to his right quickly and confidently dives back into his book before taking a double-take. _Jesus_ , he thinks.

Betty Cooper is sat primly beside him, her legs crossed at the ankles as she leans against the wall beside him. She is still holding her Nancy Drew novel. Jughead feels his throat grow dry when he notices her big, curious green eyes are watching him. He is at a loss for words.

“Hi!” she chirps, and Jughead nearly winces. She takes quick note of his actions, and her smile fades. “Sorry. I should have asked if I could sit here.”

Jughead clears his throat. “It’s okay,” he says. He is unsure of what to do. He doesn’t want her to leave per say, but he isn’t quite sure how much he wants her to stay.

Betty doesn’t say anything at first, just stares. Jughead feels hot under her piercing gaze. It isn’t until what feels like an eternity later that she speaks.

“Okay,” she begins slowly, more cautiously. “I just wanted to know what you were reading. Looks…” her words trail off as she peers at the cover of his novel. Her eyes brighten and her smile widens, and he curses himself for noticing the way stray hairs from her ponytail escape through the draft of the breeze. “...cool! Is that Spider-Man?”

Jughead looks at her, a bit stunned. He contemplates the possibility of this being some sick, cruel joke, a plot devised by his classmates to let the pretty girl lead him on and embarrass him. But then he lets his own eyes meet Betty’s, and he decides, _No. This is all her._

So he takes a deep breath, shifts towards her against the wall, and smiles.

 

* * *

 

Jughead is eleven now, and knows a bit more than before.

He knows how Betty’s freckles darken in the sunlight, he knows just the right jokes to tell to make her giggle, and knows the way her eyes crinkle and soften when she calls him _Juggie_. He knows her like the back of his hand.

There’s just one problem. Betty likes Archie.

It’s fine, he supposes. Archie is his best friend, too. He should be happy for them, right? Besides, girls like Betty Cooper don’t end up with guys like him, but _Jesus_ , if he had a dollar for everytime his heart dropped when he would catch her staring at Archie in biology class, then he’d be rich.

They’ve been friends for about five years now, and Jughead has seen it all. The way Betty’s eyes grow soft when Archie asks her a favor, the way her eyelashes flutter when she calls him _Arch_ , and the way she makes excuses when she and Jughead are alone to invite Archie over. It had hurt at first, watching her pine so helplessly, but now it has turned into some twisted universal truth Jughead stands by.

He has no chance with her, whatsoever.

While he knows he can mope all he wants, he should be there for Betty. Things are finally looking up for her relationship-wise; and no matter how much he wishes he was in Archie’s position, he knows he should just let it go. There’s no hope. For now, he just wants to spend as much time with her as possible.

Tonight is, according to Betty, _the most important night of sixth grade, Juggie._ It is the winter formal, their first official school dance of middle school. For Betty, it holds the potential for a first kiss, a dance with her crush, and a pretty, pink dress. For Jughead, on the other hand, the dance holds the potential of three cups of warm punch, a seat on the bleachers in the gymnasium, and a pity party for himself.

Four hours later, Jughead isn’t surprised to find that his predictions for the night were correct. His eyes slowly scan the scene in front of him. The typically dingy gymnasium floor was transformed with blue uplighting, streamers strewn across the ceiling rafters and balloons hanging from the bleachers that he sits upon. It is so cliche, so perfectly _middle school_ , and smack-dab in the middle of his thoughts is Betty Cooper.

Betty, who arrived at the dance looking so beautiful in her pink dress that his heart nearly leaped out of his chest, threw itself to its knees, and begged for her hand. Jughead knows he is merely entertaining himself with the thought, his point being proven when he had watched Betty grab Archie’s arm and lead him to the dance floor. If anything, the event had just solidified his suspicion that his crush is hopeless.

He’s been here for about an hour now, subjected to the bleachers along with about six other lonely kids who either didn’t have the guts to ask someone to dance or are trying to muster the courage to do so. He has managed to lose complete track of Betty and Archie by now, and as he woefully takes another sip of his punch, he is starting to contemplate never talking to either of them ever again. He sighs and stares at the empty space on the floor of the bleachers.

Suddenly, his line of vision is interrupted by a pair of light pink ballet flats. He looks up to find Betty staring back at him with her eyes glossy and brimming with tears. Alarmed, he asks, “Betty? What’s wrong?”

She sniffles loudly and lifts her chin as if to regain her composure before she speaks. She visibly inhales deeply, finds Jughead’s eyes again, and says, “It’s him. _Archie_. He left me for that no-good, that… that girl!” In one swift motion, she plops down on the bleacher next to him and buries her face in her hands. They’re close enough that their knees are touching.  _Jesus_ , Jughead thinks.

Suddenly, It occurs to him that he should try and console her. Jughead awkwardly puts his hand on her back, unsure of what to do. He zones out for a little, trying to think of something appropriate to say to provide comfort, but when he snaps out of his thoughts, he realizes she’s staring at him with an expression he can’t quite read. He’s about to open his mouth to speak, maybe apologize, but she beats him to the punch.

“Juggie, do you think I’m stupid?”

Jughead frowns deeply. “Why would you think that?”

Betty sighs and rests her face on the palms of her hands, meeting his eyes. “I wonder sometimes if…” her voice trails off. “If I’m just being an idiot for liking Archie when he doesn’t even like me that way.”

“Well, gosh, Betts, you’re no idiot,” he says, and then says more quietly, “you’re the smartest girl I know. _Archie_ is the idiot if he can’t realize what you are.”

Betty’s face flushes a light shade of pink. She leans in and pecks him on the cheek. “Thank you, Jug,” she whispers, and his face burns in response.

She scoots over on the bleacher so that their sides are touching and rests her head on his shoulder. Just before he thinks he is about to spontaneously combust, she reaches for his hand and laces her fingers with his. He inhales sharply.

“You’re my best friend, Juggie,” she whispers softly.

He looks around the gymnasium. The kids on the dance floor, swaying to a slow, lilting song. The reflective patches of light spotted around the walls from the disco ball suspended from the ceiling, spinning at a moderate pace. He spots Archie in the sea of his classmates, pressed against another girl he doesn’t recognize.

But next to him is Betty, sweet, beautiful Betty, who feels like less than he knows she is. He rubs his thumb against her wrist endearingly and murmurs, “You’re my best friend, too.”

He feels her cheekbones rise in a soft smile against his shoulder, and his heart swells. The music reverberates through his bones, its drawn-out melody bouncing off the walls of his mind, and he knows he will never forget this moment for as long as he lives.

  


* * *

 

 

 

It began as a calculated risk, really.

He can think back to that day in snippets of memory. He can remember the butterflies swirling in his stomach as he had carefully leaned the old ladder against the side of her house. He can recall how the spokes appeared to triple as he had begun his climb towards her window. The way his throat went dry at just the sight of her, the way his hands grew clammy, the way he felt the urge to tug his beanie over his ears and disappear.

But there are some parts of memory that are too important to forget.

The pink of her lips, the flush of her cheeks- and that soft, feminine sigh she had made after their first kiss had broke.

He could never forget her.

 

.

.

.

 

fin. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading my work! I've been harboring this one-shot for a long time now, so I'm glad it's finally here.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed all the pining. As season 3 approaches, I find it fun to go back to our season 1 days- and especially what could've come before that.
> 
> You can find me on tumblr @roothful. I'd love to try and branch out more and meet more people! Fair warning: no proper grammar is used there.
> 
> A big thanks goes out to @shrugheadjones and @flwrpotts who were so generous in answering my many questions and being fantastic beta's. 
> 
> Anyway, thank you again for reading. I truly hope you enjoyed it. Leave kudos and/or a comment and let me know what you thought! It would mean so much to me. X


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